


Handprints

by capncrystal



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Owen and Laure Adamo, Post-Steelhands Fluff, Pregnant Laure, Pure Unadulterated Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 15:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6962164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capncrystal/pseuds/capncrystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laure and Owen paint a nursery. Nobody escapes unscathed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handprints

**Author's Note:**

> So I helped my bestie paint two rooms in one day (taping, painting and all) and I think my brain melted a little. So much fluff.

“Honey, how much do you love me?”

Owen Adamo blinked once, then glanced up at his wife with one eyebrow raised in mocking amusement. Laure was balanced three steps up on the ladder, a smear of green paint smudged across her cheek like a thumbprint and run into her hair where she’d unconsciously tucked back an errant curl. She was holding out a paint roller with the kind of shit-eating grin he’d have to discipline Ghislain for, later, just for teaching her how to look like you knew nobody could say no to you.

Even if it was true, it still stuck in his craw a little bit that she knew it.

Adamo crawled up, hating the way his bones creaked when he rose. He’d only been on the floor for a few minutes, and on his ass rather than his knees so really they had no business complaining. Being the dutiful husband meant he got the shit work, like crawling around on the floor to get the parts Laure couldn’t quite bend over to reach in her state. Like refreshing her paint roller when it dried out. Like letting her on a ladder because stretching to reach the ceiling was a damn sight easier than bending over for any reason, even though it meant swallowing his entirely rational fear of her up on said ladder.

Laure painted like she was angry at the walls. Her lips thinned, her eyebrows lowered and her eyes filled with the kind of fire that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a battle. The ferocity in which she rolled on the paint left evidence on her forearms, little freckles of paint that went almost up to her elbows. The effort she expended left rivulets of sweat dripping down her temples and had her shirt stick, fetchingly, to her torso. There was a pause while he stopped to give his wife a slow, appreciative look.

Laure rolled her eyes without looking at him. “Are you going to stare at my ass all day, sir?” The aggressiveness she gave the walls didn’t show in her tone, though he suspected that Inglory was lashing her tail somewhere downstairs.

“Wasn’t your ass I was staring at,” he smirked and handed her the roller. She hummed in doubt, but let it go without comment.

For the most part, they painted in relative silence. It was nice. Laure hummed something or other, unobtrusive enough not to break his concentration. The summery breeze flowed in the open window. It would have carried off the smell of the paint, which he’d expected to be vile, but Roy had helped him track down a magician who could mix up colors without the usual stench. It was even an inoffensive color, though Adamo still didn’t understand why they couldn’t have stuck with white and not bothered painting at all.  

Later, when they had switched so he could get into the top corners the roller wouldn’t reach, he got so involved in reaching as far as he could that a sudden, firm hand on his backside almost sent him crashing down to the ground. He held on to the top of the ladder for a moment, startled, while Laure cackled and wiped off her hands with a towel. She walked away, muttering about asses and revenge, while he climbed down a little too carefully, glowering at the ladder like everything was its fault. Still muttering, he moved the ladder over and continued working while his mischievous and, he was forced to remember, still _young_ wife lumbered downstairs for a break. He finished up the top corners as quick as he could, then took the stairs two at a time to join her.

A brief shout of startled laughter behind him confirmed his suspicions. Balfour and Troius had their hands covering their mouths, though he wanted to punch Troius a little more for the obvious amusement. Raphael wasn’t bothering to hide his look of unadulterated glee.

The kitchen was open to the living room, so he pulled a glass down and filled it from the tap, looking as unconcerned as possible. “Something funny?” He asked, offhand, glancing back at his boys as if he hadn’t a clue.

“No sir,” Raphael, the ass, looked like he was about to ascend from sheer joy. “Nothing funny at all. Is there, Balfour?”

It took a moment, but Balfour caught on, bless his heart. “N-No, nothing.”

Adamo nodded and made to retreat back upstairs, pausing for a moment when he noticed Ghislain in the staircase with an eyebrow raised.

“Well, there’s a look,” Ghislain rumbled, a grin spreading across his face.

“Shut it,” Adamo retorted and brushed past him.

He’d have to toss the pants, if the paint wouldn’t wash off. He didn’t suppose any of the boys would take orders seriously from a man with a light green handprint on his rear end.


End file.
